Tenured
Professor Dr. A.J. Staffe died March 9, 1958 and was accompanied by his
friends and family members to his final resting place on March 15.

Staffe was born
in 1888 as the son of a prominent farmer in the Kühländchen
("pasturelands") of Moravia, the homeland of genetics
researcher [Gregor Johann] Mendel [i.e., the father of modern genetics].
He attended secondary school in the then German city of Friedek [now
Frýdek-Mistek (Ger. Friedeck-Mistek) on the border of Moravia and
Silesia in the eastern Czech Republic] and graduated from the Hochschule
für Bodenkultur (University of Natural Resources and Applied Life
Sciences) in Vienna. Dr. Adametz, instructor of animal husbandry at that
time, recognized Staffe’s extraordinary talent very early on and soon
asked him to do scientific research. After receiving his doctorate,
Staffe worked at what was known during his time as the Hofgestüt
Lippizza (Lippizaner stud farm). After the First World War he was
promoted to associate professor of animal husbandry.

For all intents
and purposes a farmer, Staffe was entrusted with the administration of
the then Bathyanihof and Seidelhof leaseholds in Trautmannsdorf an der
Leitha as well as in Weiden am See, which kept him very busy. Despite
his heavy workload, his thirst for knowledge gave him no rest. He
dedicated many nights to deepening and broadening his knowledge, which
consisted at this time in exhaustive bacteriological studies with Dr.
Zikes.

The high esteem
in which Dr. Adametz held his young associate professor is probably best
summed up by the fact that he charged Staffe with conducting lectures
and exams on animal husbandry during his absences that often lasted for
months at a time.

After the death
of Professor Winkler, Staffe was entrusted with giving lectures on dairy
farming and appointed full professor at the Hochschule für
Bodenkultur. From 1940 to 1943, Austria’s own "son from the Kühländchen"was invested with the highest academic honour by becoming principal
of the same Viennese institution. In the wake of the war, however, he
was unable to pursue his wide-ranging plans to build an institute of
higher learning with its various departments, as well as an important
research farm.

While Staffe’s
academic work came to an abrupt end in 1945, his unceasing research did
not. First of all, he received a friendly reception in Switzerland,
where several scientific projects saw the light of day. He then made his
way to Columbia as an FAO (food and agriculture) expert, with the task
of putting proposals for the advancement of animal husbandry and
breeding into practice. For weeks on end, Staffe travelled by plane,
automobile, and often on horseback through the Andean Highlands and
through the vast expanses of a country nearly fourteen times larger than
Austria. He soon became known as an expert on Columbia. Staffe’s
exhaustive preliminary work allowed him to put together projects with
uncompromising attention to detail. His work earned him high recognition
and he was one of the most respected and valued men in the country.
Despite his once forced departure from the Hochschule für
Bodenkultur in Vienna that had caused him so much suffering, his
life had become richly rewarding.

[Photo: Albin
Kobe]

In addition to
three books, Staffe published over 100 scientific articles in which he
dealt with questions of genetics, environmental effects, and problems
relating to dairy farming and bacteriology. Staffe was profoundly
versatile and a man of depth. Everything he undertook was handled with
uncommon energy and thoroughness.

During his time
in academia, Staffe taught some 800 students. He was a father-like
figure to all and available at a moment’s notice. Few of his students
will still be aware – and may they kindly take note – that it was
Staffe who, very early on, observed how the penicillium fungus arrested
the growth of bacteria. While he demonstrated this occurrence to his
students each semester, he was hindered by the lack of resources and
assistants in conducting further research that ultimately allowed the
British [Scottish!] [Sir Alexander] Flemming [sic] to succeed at
discovering penicillin.

With the
passing of Staffe, who was also a corresponding member of the Academy of
Science in Vienna, a large and distinguished scientist of international
renown has left us. But his signature qualities continue to hold sway.
He was noble-minded and kind-hearted, and his helpfulness and loyalty
went without saying. He will be sorely missed by his family and friends.

The following article was written by AGC many years after the event. It is
believed that he submitted it to The New Statesman,
which declined to publish. It is believed that a copy was placed in the archives
of The Euthanasia Society, now known as The Dignity in Dying Society. It is
placed here with the permission of the daughters of Elsi and Alan.

Were I the
son of William Tell, I should most fervently hope, for my father's
sake as well as for my own safety, that some other expert marksman -
anybody but my own father - should be ordered to shoot the apple from
my head. Compared with voluntary euthanasia, the roles oflife
and death are reversed, but the analogy remains valid.

Early in 1961
(before the 1961 Suicide Act came into force) my first wife, aged 39,
died in a London cancer hospital. She had terminal cancer of the
colon, and had taken (with my foreknowledge) an overdose of
barbiturates. The main point of telling the story now is that it
illustrates, with especial poignancy, a very common and serious
practical difficulty. Although suicides done "on impulse"
are often fully "solo" efforts, it is rare for somebody to
plan and carry out an act of euthanasia entirely on their own. At the
very least they are likely to have a confidant and, much more often,
somebody who gives them more or less active help and support. Ideally
this would be a medicalpractitioner,
but in the present state of the law it isoften
difficult to find a doctor willing to help in thisway
(thirty years ago it was even more difficult). Oneis,
after all, asking the doctor to commit a criminaloffence
and to put their own career at some risk - a lot toask.
So the role of helper usually falls to a closerelative
- spouse, parent, sibling or child. There are several dangers
associated with acting as a lay helper.

Clearly,
there is the risk of being eventuallyprosecuted
- a traumatic experience, even if one is notconvicted.
The lack of sufficient medical expertise isperhaps
not so serious a drawback as is commonly supposed.(I
am a biologist, and had used barbiturate drugs as ananimal
anaesthetic many times. So, as far as sheertechnical
knowhow goes, I was much better equipped for myrole
than the average layperson. Yet our 'conspiracy'very
nearly failed, and hovered on the brink for over 24hours.)
By far the greatest dangercomes from
the close emotional involvement of the helperwith
the patient; helping a loved one to end their life isnot
easy, and one is continually in a state of being"pulled
both ways". The need for secrecy adds a furtherlayer
of emotional stress. In such emotionallyfraught
situations one's judgement tends to be seriouslyimpaired,
leading to mistakes or oversights that wouldrarely
be made in an emotionally neutral context.

We should
take heed of what doctors do when there is even moderately serious
illness in their own family. Rather than treat the case themselves, a
colleague is called in. It is not that the doctor reckons his
colleague more skilled: he simply knows that the colleague, from hismore detached position, is better placed to
make a calm andbalanced judgement.

Over the past
3 1/2 years my wife had had two major and two minor surgical
operations, and by the end of 1960 we knew we had reached the end of
the surgical road. At one point I discovered, to my great disgust,
that her surgeon and our GP had been conspiring to deceive us (me,
mainly) as toher condition: the surgeon
wrote to the GP the preciseopposite of
the reassuring message he had given BO. (Iknow,
because I later saw their correspondence. )Fortunately,
labelled [sic] by instinct, I insisted (againstrather
strong opposition from the GP) on calling in asecond
opinion. As a result, she had a further operationwhich
(although only palliative - not all the cancer couldbe
removed) was enormously beneficial. It gave her anextra
18 months of very worth-while life, most of itcomparatively
free of pain. Although I do not think that-
as things turned out - that episode of medical deceptionhad
much effect on the course of my wife's illness, it did,naturally,
seriously impair our degree of trust in themedical
profession, and leave us both with a stronger senseof
being isolated (hardly conducive to rationaljudgement).

Six months
before she died, my wife told me that she had accumulated over 50
barbiturate capsules (prescribed as sleeping-pills - she had been
taking them only on 'bad' nights). We went together over all the usual
issues and emotions associated with euthanasia, and I could notfind it in me to try to dissuade her. From me
she wantedjust two promises: that I
would do nothing to thwart herplan, and
that I would verify that she had enough of thedrug
for her purpose. (According to the BritishPharmacoepia,
she had over ten times the lethal dose - areassuringly
large margin. ) Her intention was to keepthe
drug always by her, and not to tell me in advance whenshe
decided to take it. That lifted one burden from me: inthe
event of a farewell meeting ("I shall take the drugtonight")
I know I should have felt an overwhelmingpressure
to persuade her to postpone it for a few days, andthen
for a few days more ... .

In the first
days of 1961, by a prearranged plan, I took our two daughters, aged 6
and 8, to stay with their aunt and cousins in Austria (my wife's
native country). Besides affording them some shelter from what was to
come (a new and exciting environment can work wonders), itleft
us free to move away from Edinburgh. We had beenoffered
the chance of having chemotherapy in London.Neither
of us saw that as amounting to other than clutchingat
straws. (For technical reasons, the various anti-cancer drugs are far
more effective against rapidlygrowing
kinds of cancer than against the slowly growingtype
that my wife had.) Indeed, our London doctor wasadmirably
frank, saying only that some of the newer drugshad
shown "a degree of promise" with that type of cancer.In that situation, even clutching at straws
seemspreferable to waiting passively
for the inevitable. So wemoved to
London, where she was placed in a two-bedded side-ward. In retrospect,
the benefit of moving to London layfar
more in the better standard of care and much quieteratmosphere
there, than in any specific medicaltreatment.

A week later,
I returned to Edinburgh for a couple of days, partly to ensure that
our house was properly shut down and secured, but also to collect
various papers and books from my place of work. Colleagues hadurged
on me some very sound advice. Don't, they said, let life became just a
sequence of hospital visits; take down some work to do, and that will
help divert your mind. To that end, I had already arranged to borrow a
room to work in at London University. My car broke down during the
journey back from Edinburgh, so I had to leave it at a Yorkshire
garage, for a reconditioned engine to be fitted, and completemy
journey by train.

Three weeks
after our first arrival in London, I had still not begun any work: two
hospital visits each day and a lot of time spent in travelling (I was
staying with my father in the outer suburbs) did not leave much time
to settle down to work. By wife's condition had seemed fairly stable
over the past few days, so I decided to tell herthat
afternoon that I would skip that evening's visitingsession
and do some work at the university. It was lessthe
value of any little work I might get done than that theattempt
at "business as usual" would helpthe
morale of both of us.

That
afternoon there was very bad news. The doctors had decided to
discontinue chemotherapy: the treatment was destroying too many of her
blood cells. They wanted me to arrange, within about a week, for hertransfer to a nursing home - probably one of
the MarieCurie Memorial Homes. Despite
the news, I persisted in myoriginal
plan of not coming again in the evening. As Ileft,
saying "see you tomorrow afternoon", I had not theleast
idea that that would be the last time we shouldspeak
to each other.

Once outside
the hospital, the impact of chemotherapy being stopped sunk more
deeply into me. I felt too upset to concentrate on work, so I went to
a cinema instead, in an attempt to relax. Early next morning, my
father took a telephone call: as soon as he said it was fromthe
hospital I knew what had. happened, and was amazed thatI
had not guessed that yesterday's news might trigger offher
plan. They said that she had seemed normal theprevious
evening, but was found to be ina coma
in the morning.

The journey
across London took nearly two hours. I hardly expected to find her
still alive, but alive she was, lying peacefully and breathing
steadily, if rather slowly and shallowly. Her room-mate had, of
course, been moved elsewhere. From my wife's handbag I took two emptybottles, and transferred them to my pocket for
eventualdisposal outside the hospital.
One had contained thebarbiturate; the
other was a miniature of brandy. Thebrandy
had been my idea - partly to make the draught morepalatable,
but also because alcohol strengthens the action of barbiturates.
Somebody asked me to go along to see thedoctors.
There were two of them - a man and a woman, bothquite
young, and new to me. They said they suspectedthat
my wife had taken an overdose of something. Itwould
help to know which drug it was. Did I knowanything
which would throw light on that? I firmlydenied
any knowledge, but added emphatically that if I didknow
anything I certainly would not tell them. They knewher
condition and prospects, I pointed out, and if she hadtaken
something, she was fully aware ofwhat
she was doing. With all the passion I could mister,I
begged them not to take any steps to resuscitate her.

There
followed a long, embarrassed silence, ended by my leaving the room. I
had not expected an explicit promise not to attempt resuscitation that
would have implicated them in a criminal conspiracy. I had hoped for
oblique assurances that they understood the situation (I am quite sure
they grasped my message) and would not intervene. Perhaps a more
experienced doctor would have found a moresympathetic
and supportive way of handling this trickysituation.

Back at my
wife's room, I found to my alarm a nurse at her bedside, syringe in
hand. I put out my hand to restrain her, but she explained that she
was intending only to take a blood sample. Realising that the syringe
was indeed empty, I let her proceed. Then began a vigil thatwas
to last 27 hours. For the first few hours I sawmyself
as being "on guard", lest the hospital take activesteps
towards resuscitation, though what I could or wouldhave
done in that event, I cannot imagine. It graduallybecame
clear that the hospital was intending simply to letthings
take their "natural" course, but as that fearsubsided
another, deeper, alarm came to the fore. My wifehad
taken one of the quicker- acting barbiturates, whichshould
have maximum effect within a few hours. Seeingthat
some 12 hours must have elapsed before I reachedthe
hospital, that time was well past. What I had now toexpect
was that, as the effects of the drug wore off, shewould
slowly recover, and eventually regain consciousness.

Of course,
there was part of me that did not want her todie
just then, but the alternative seemed far morealarming.
On recovery, she would be bound to havefeelings
of disillusionment and despair, of an intensitythat
I could only guess at. As for me, how could I faceher,
knowing that - somehow - I had failed her In her lastand
most important request? To organise anotherattempt
would be extremely difficult: the hospital staffwould
now be alerted to the danger and, understandably,would
see it as their duty to frustrate any attempt. Evenobtaining
a fresh supply of a suitable drug would be aformidable
problem, though that would not have beenquite
so difficult back in Edinburgh. I did not spend quiteall
the time in her room: I made short tripsoutside
for meals; I disposed of the bottles, bought anewspaper.
Occasionally I went down to the hospitalwaiting-room,
or paced along the corridors. These weretension-relieving
stratagems - successful upto a point.

I did
seriously consider telephoning the Voluntary Euthanasia Society, but
decided that that would be unfair (to the Society) and rather
pointless. The purpose of the Society is to campaign for reform of the
law, not to offer help or support to those engaged in an Illegal act.I tried to phone a scientific colleague, but he
was out.Probably I phoned my father, to
explain my prolongedabsence. The only
constructively comforting conversationI
had during all that time occurred during one of mywanderings
along the corridors. I act [sic] mywife's
room-mate. She told me not to worry or feelguilty:
it had been the only possible way. They hadtalked
together about it the previous evening, and she (theroom-mate)
was fully determined to do the same when her owntime
came. None of this directly addressed what was mychief
worry by then (i.e. what should I do if my wiferecovered?)
but just to talk sympathetically and openlywith
somebody who knew thecircumstances was
immeasurably supportive.

Twice during
the final hours my wife moved her head veryslightly.
This alarmed me, as it seemed a likely preludeto
recovery - but nothing further happened. At thisstage
I did very seriously contemplate smothering her facein
a pillow. The risk of detection would have beenvery
slight, but I just could not do it (am I a coward?).Then
her breathing became progressively slower and finallyceased;
the vigil was over.

I went out to
register her death, then to the university, where I phoned my father,
who drove in to collect me. Mercifully, the next few days were
frantically busy. We found a printer who would produce, at very short
notice, cards announcing her death. The wording followedprecisely
what she had written in her address-book: "... noflowers,please - donations to the Marie Curie Memorial
Foundation... ." Although the hospital must have had very serious
doubts,they issued a "clean"
death certificate, so that I was ableto
arrange for her remains to be cremated. I addressedand
despatched all the cards, and went upto
Yorkshire to collect ay car. The cremation I attendedabsolutely
alone, following her wish. As soon as I couldcollect
the ashes from the undertaker, I took a night trainto Austria.
Breaking the news to our daughters was not atask
I could delegate.

After a few
days in Stiermark with my daughters, I went on to Vienna. There, my
mother-ln-law and I quietly interred her ashes in her father's grave.
That was in a Roman Catholic cemetery: a double irony, since suicide
and cremation are both anathema to that church. The marginal
dishonesty of the procedure did not seen to bother my mother-in-law
– a devout Roman Catholic – so I saw no cause for it to
worry me, an agnostic, nor did I think fit to burden her conscience by
explaining how her daughter had died. I returned to Edinburgh to pick
up the threads of work, to rebuild a life, and to find a housekeeper.
Aftersix months, I went again to
Austria to bring my daughters back home.

What went
wrong? That is now hardly more than anacademic
question, but there are several plausiblepossibilities.
Given the ten-fold excess over thenominal
lethal dose, it seems highly unlikely that,purely
as a result of age, the drug's potency could havedeclined
to that extent. It is conceivable that theresiduum
of the anti-cancer drug she had been taking insome
way interacted with the barbiturate, reducing itseffect.
Perhaps my wife had failed to swallow the wholeamount;
I am confident that her room-mate would havecleaned
up any spillage, rinsed out the tumbler, etc.Perhaps
an antidote had been administered before I reachedthe
hospital. But I strongly suspect that the fault layin
something I did shortly before we left Edinburgh.

My wife had
faced me with a disturbing question: "How, whenit
comes to the point, shall I manage to swallow 50capsules?"
Well, some people swallow pills or tablets veryeasily,
while others find it more difficult - she hadalways
been in the latter category. If you are illand
debilitated, that tends to make matters worse, whilegelatine
capsules offer a special problem: unless swallowedimmediately,
they become sticky and tend to clump together.In
desperation, I did the only thing I could think of. Itook
home the capsules, opened up each one, and tipped thecontents
into a quite tiny pill bottle, made tight the capand
put tape around it for extra surety. I was well awarethat
barbiturates lose their potency on excessive exposureto
air (hence the very small bottle), but bearing in mindthe original
10-fold margin, andwith the addition of thebrandy,
I felt confident we still had an ample margin.This,
of course, was just the kind of point on which itwould
have been sensible to consult somebody more expert.

But to whom could I
have turned?

Despite my
comparatively passive role, I was very clearly guilty of being an
accomplice in suicide (or murder), for which I could have been
prosecuted and sentenced to up to 14 years' imprisonment. Thirty years
later, prosecution, although still theoretically possible, is almost
unthinkable. Prosecutions for ancient offences where the accused's
confession is the sole evidence are now, quite rightly, out of favour
(and I do not even have an Irish name). At the time, if the hospital
had made any difficulty over issuing a death certificate, there wouldpresumably have been a coroner's inquest,
possiblyfollowed by a prosecution. That
would have beenunpleasant for me, even
if I had been acquitted. For ourdaughters
it would have been horribly traumatic.